скачать книгу бесплатно
The Other Side Of Paradise
Laurie Paige
A FAMILY FORGOTTEN?What self-proclaimed loner and rootless orphan Mary McHale couldn't anticipate, when she arrived at Towbridge Ranch for the winter, were the feelings her new surroundings stirred deep within her…a mysterious déjà vu unlike anything the relentlessly independent wrangler had ever experienced.Jonah Lanigan couldn't drive the haunting blue eyes of his new employee from his mind–or dismiss the notion that they were an eerie reflection of others he'd seen before. Could he help Mary piece together her fragmented past…and in the process, become part of her future?
Mary might not be able to stay here, after all.
A winter alone with Jonah could prove too dangerous.
“I’m not going to pounce on you,” he said quietly, a flicker of humor in the words. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, but I won’t.”
She stared at him, mouth agape.
He laughed, another temptation in itself, his voice smooth and luxuriously deep. “Drink up, cowgirl, then go to bed. You’ve had a long day. By morning, you’ll have all your fences in place again.”
“This is so strange,” she said, talking more to herself than to him.
His eyes roamed over her face as if memorizing its planes and shapes. “Not so strange. You’re a very lovely woman. And I still have warm blood flowing through my veins….”
Dear Reader,
Well, it’s September, which always sounds like a fresh start to me, no matter how old I get. And evidently we have six women this month who agree. In Home Again by Joan Elliott Pickart, a woman who can’t have children has decided to work with them in a professional capacity—but when she is assigned an orphaned little boy, she fears she’s in over her head. Then she meets his gorgeous guardian—and she’s sure of it!
In the next installment of MOST LIKELY TO…, The Measure of a Man by Marie Ferrarella, a single mother attempting to help her beloved former professor joins forces with a former campus golden boy, now the college…custodian. What could have happened? Allison Leigh’s The Tycoon’s Marriage Bid pits a pregnant secretary against her ex-boss who, unbeknownst to him, has a real connection to her baby’s father. In The Other Side of Paradise by Laurie Paige, next up in her SEVEN DEVILS miniseries, a mysterious woman seeking refuge as a ranch hand learns that she may have more ties to the community than she could have ever suspected. When a beautiful nurse is assigned to care for a devastatingly handsome, if cantankerous, cowboy, the results are…well, you get the picture—but you can have it spelled out for you in Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, Taming a Dark Horse. And in Undercover Nanny by Wendy Warren, a domestically challenged female detective decides it’s necessary to penetrate the lair of single father and heir to a grocery fortune by pretending to be…his nanny. Hmm. It could work….
So enjoy, and snuggle up. Fall weather is just around the corner….
Happy reading!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor
The Other Side of Paradise
Laurie Paige
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAURIE PAIGE
has been a NASA engineer, a past president of the Romance Writers of America, a mother and a grandmother. She was twice a Romance Writers of America RITA
Award finalist for Best Traditional Romance and has won awards from Romantic Times for Best Silhouette Special Edition and Best Silhouette in addition to appearing on the USA TODAY bestseller list. Recently resettled in Northern California, Laurie is looking forward to whatever experiences her next novel will send her on.
Contents
Chapter One (#u4220e930-24e3-5d59-80b2-1c7dac3b3a92)
Chapter Two (#u508f7b89-f9e9-52c9-91c0-3bce81324407)
Chapter Three (#uccbbfb8d-795c-572d-acd7-53c94c16a57c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Mary McHale checked the directions on the sheet of paper, then studied the road again. There was no indication of a one-lane bridge on the quickly sketched map at the bottom of the brochure, nor of a creek.
Before retracing her tracks to the main county road, she perused the evergreen forest rising up the steep slope of the mountain, listened to the sound of the quietly burbling creek under the wooden bridge, then wondered if the water was pure enough to drink.
Not that she would risk taking a sip, but the woodland scene looked so peaceful and inviting it was difficult to imagine danger lurking there, whether germs or other kinds.
A place to lose yourself. Or maybe, she mused, a place to lose the world and find yourself.
The deep quiet called to her, but she had obligations and, as some poet had once said, miles to go before she slept.
With a sigh, she wheeled the old SUV and horse trailer in a tight arc and started back the way she’d come. At the main county road, she headed north once more and continued her search for the Towbridge ranch.
Three miles farther on, another gravel lane forked to the left. She spotted the sign informing her that the place she sought was seven miles west and made the correct turn.
Relief wafted through her. The shadows were long, she was tired and Attila needed food, water and exercise.
Nearly twenty minutes and seven miles later, she pulled up before the main building, a timber structure built rather like a large hunting lodge. A sign over the front porch declared the place to be the Towbridge Ranch, Est. 1899.
The gravel driveway continued on and circled a wooded area dotted with three or four picnic tables. Around the western perimeter of the driveway, she spotted camp sites through the firs and pine trees. RVs filled most of the parking spaces.
Well, it was the first Monday of September. Labor Day. Families were enjoying their last weekend in the mountains before winter set in, she supposed.
After parking before an old-fashioned horse rail, obviously new, she picked up a postcard from the passenger seat. It showed the seven peaks that formed a semicircle along the eastern border of Hells Canyon and gave the area its name. Seven Devils Mountains.
The peaks were west of the camp-ranch-resort where she was to be employed as a wrangler-hiking guide-whatever. The sun was setting behind the mountains in a near replica of the scene on the postcard she’d impulsively bought in LostValley, Idaho, the small town where she’d gassed up and which was an hour’s drive down the winding, dusty mountain roads she’d just traveled.
Observing the pink, gold and magenta streaks of the sunset and the mysterious shadows of the forest, she experienced the oddest sensation—that of a weight settling on her spirit. A forlorn sadness accompanied the heaviness, as if something vast and terrible impinged on her soul…a tragedy…
The emotion puzzled and irritated her. Seven Devils. The name was almost a premonition, a black cloud lurking on the horizon. Maybe she’d been here in a past life.
Yeah, right, and maybe she’d been Cleopatra in another.
A soft neigh from Attila, reminding her of his needs, pulled her out of the introspective mood. She had things to do and people to see.
After backing the horse out of the trailer, she snapped a lead rope on his halter and tied it at the end of the railing so he could munch the fall grass while she went inside to report to her new bosses, Keith Towbridge and Jonah Lanigan.
The lodge was empty. She surveyed the quaint main room, which had a high ceiling, a huge fireplace and rustic furniture made from alder and white cedar.
To her left was an office with a counter separating it from the great room. An archway to the right disclosed a small store stocked with canned goods and camping gear. A staircase gave access to rooms on the second floor while a hallway led to the nether regions on the main level of the sturdy building.
According to the brochure she’d picked up in town, the place was advertised as an adventure destination in the real West, which apparently meant hunting, fishing and paramilitary games for those “wanting to break out of the ordinary routine of life.” That idea would appeal to the deskbound executive, she supposed.
“Anybody here?” she called.
The place was so silent she could hear grass grow if she listened hard enough. The hair on her nape stood up.
“Hello!” she yelled more forcibly.
“Hello, yourself,” a masculine voice finally replied. “I’m in the kitchen.”
She walked down the hall and into a galley-type kitchen. Directly across from it was a room with three tables, each with four chairs. Windows displayed the view in three directions—all magnificent.
A man, as long-legged and lean as a coyote, glanced at her while he continued a chore at the sink. His features were hawkish, the angles of his face stern but attractive in a hard-jawed, clean-shaven way.
Like her, he was dressed in boots, jeans and a white T-shirt. He also wore a blue work shirt, open down the front, over the tee. Unlike her, he wore no hat. She liked to keep her hair tucked out of sight under a worn gray Stetson.
“You the new wrangler?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Who sent you here?”
She wondered if this was a trick question. “Trek Lanigan from the Trading Post north of Lost Valley. Are you his cousin?”
The Trading Post was a store that sold Native American crafts some of it old and valuable. That was where she’d seen the Help Wanted sign and asked about the job. The owner of the store bore a distinct resemblance to this man, except he wore his hair long. This one kept his cut short.
Glancing at the dining room, she realized she’d expected more of a working ranch and less of a resort type place. She didn’t like being around people all the time.
Most of the time, she amended.
The man nodded, affirming he was the cousin who’d hired her by phone interview. He finished washing a potato and dropped it in a pot of what looked like simmering soup stock. The pot was huge, the aroma coming from it mouthwatering.
“Can you cook?” he wanted to know.
“Yes. But Mr. Lanigan didn’t mention it as a requirement.”
“He’s Trek. I’m Jonah. Keith Towbridge is my partner. His wife is Janis. They have a son, K.J., short for Keith, Junior. Their house is on the back of the ranch, but they’re over here fairly often. You’ll met them later this week.”
Mary took in the information and stored it for future reference. It sounded as if she had definitely been hired. For now. At least he hadn’t taken one look and told her to get lost. The owners could probably use all the help they could get out here in the wilds.
“I, uh, have to take care of my horse. He needs water and bedding down.”
Jonah Lanigan shot her another assessing glance. His hair was almost black, his eyes a smoky blue-gray that effectively hid his thoughts. He was four or five inches taller that her own five feet ten inches.
In her work boots, she was as tall or taller than most men. Her height usually gave her an advantage, but not with this man. She stirred uneasily.
“The stable is in back.” He frowned and she noted the irritation he suppressed. “There’s a bunkhouse attached. I suppose we can make room in the lodge, though.”
“The bunkhouse is fine,” she quickly told him. “Uh, if I have a private bedroom?”
He shook his head. “There’s an empty room at the top of the stairs. Put your stuff up there for now. I’ll need your help at breakfast. Six o’clock sharp.”
“Right.” She retreated.
So far, so good. She’d made it past the first hurdle. The rancher down in the valley had taken one look at her and said the wrangler job she’d come there to fill wasn’t open. His son had looked her over with obvious interest.
She probably had an Equal Opportunity case against the older man, but she hadn’t liked his manner—nor his son’s—or the poor condition of the ranch and stock, so she’d left without arguing.
Attila whickered as soon as she appeared. She soothed him with a few quiet words, untied the rope, then led the horse around the lodge to the backyard where she spotted the stable. There was a fenced area next to it.
After freeing the nine-year-old stallion in the paddock, she filled a trough with fresh water, then checked the stable.
The eight stalls were empty. She prepared one for her horse, placing hay in the manger and spreading fresh straw over the dirt floor. Finished, she went outside and observed the dun-colored Thoroughbred as he walked around the fence and checked out his new quarters.
His silver coat with the brownish tinge—really a dark ash-blond—seemed a lighter shade against the weathered gray of the stable. His limp wasn’t pronounced, but she was aware of his fatigue in the way he moved.
A racehorse that hadn’t done well at the track, he’d been placed in a stock auction three years ago, but few had wanted the spirited stallion. He was useless as a work horse and parents hadn’t thought him safe for their children.
However, his bloodlines were excellent, and Mary had seen promise in the powerful haunches that had lifted him over a seven-foot fence when he’d attempted an escape. Using her life savings of fourteen thousand dollars, she’d outbid the other person who’d been interested in buying him.
Attila was the one thing she loved in all the world. They had bonded the first time she’d petted him at the track where she’d worked as a handler, getting the excited horses in the slots so the races could begin.
Noticing a cabin connected to the stable via an enclosed breezeway, she knocked on the door, then entered when no one answered. The place had a main room with a woodstove and two smaller rooms behind that. Bedrooms, she discovered upon further exploration. The building hadn’t been used in a while, she decided, swiping a finger through the dust on a sturdy pine table in the first room.
The ranch apparently didn’t hire many workers. That was fine by her. Here, she would have privacy.
Pleased, she hurried back to the lodge to move the SUV and trailer down, then decided first she’d better ask her boss about staying in the cabin.
From the kitchen, she heard a string of curses as she mounted the steps to the back entrance. Smoke billowed from the screen door. Her boss came outside just as she approached wearing oven mittens and carrying a baking sheet of black lumps. With a couple of added curses, he tossed lumps, pan and all over the railing and onto the dried lawn.
“That could start a grass fire,” she mentioned in carefully casual tones.
He grabbed a hose from a reel mounted on the house and drenched the biscuits or whatever the lumps had been in their former incarnation, then turned off the water with a furious twist. “There, satisfied?” He stomped inside.
She followed, wary of his temper but curious about him and the operations of the resort. “Do you need some help?”
